


Christmas with the Gunmen

by beepollenkick



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, Gen, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:17:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2642954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beepollenkick/pseuds/beepollenkick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lone Gunmen indulge in spreading the Christmas cheer with their fellow man (er, FBI agents).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas with the Gunmen

**Author's Note:**

> set the day after "How The Ghosts Stole Christmas" (season 6), with direct reference to the episode.  
> though there is mention of MSR, I'm not labeling it as such, because I want this to be a Lone Gunmen-centric fic.

Christmas morning, 1998.  
The Lone Gunmen's headquarters.  


Byers woke up with a start on Christmas morning. Soft, fluffy flakes tumbled down outside his window, coating everything in a light dusting of white. He smiled. They might be grown men, he thought, but they couldn't deny that Christmas morning still filled them with childish joy. A small groan escaped his lips as he reached over to switch off the alarm before it rang, and a hot, cylindrical object intercepted his hand. He propped himself up on his elbow and focused his eyes. A mug of cocoa had been placed on his bedside. Byers furrowed his brows as he examined it. He was usually the first to wake up in the morning, and he was almost certain he didn't put that there. He rubbed his eyes and slid the duvet back as he deposited himself from the bed onto the cold floor, blindly searching for his slippers with his feet.

Carrying the mug, he made his way to the living room, his slippers slapping against the hardwood. He rounded the corner to find Langly and Frohike, sitting in front of their tree; a small, artificial decorative piece that looked rather sad atop the stool they had placed it on. A few little presents sat scattered on the stool beneath the tree's sparse, overused branches, while several larger packages lay neatly in piles around the legs.

Frohike's head spun around as he heard Byers approaching. "Look at that, our sleeping beauty has finally awoken."

"C'mon, we've been waiting for you!" Langly insisted.

Byers nodded his head and grinned. The two of them, resembling excited kids coercing their parents into early rising on Christmas morning, couldn't help but make him feel all warm inside. There was a certain magic about Christmas morning that seemed to strike a lighthearted chord in each of them.

"Alright then, let's survey the damage this year," Byers sighed.

"All of mine are wrapped in stripper Santa paper," Frohike beamed. He wasn't kidding. Somehow, he'd managed to locate a wrapping paper adorned with chubby little red-faced Santas, their pudgy legs curled round giant candy cane poles.

"Tasteful," Langly snickered as he picked up a shoebox-sized parcel decorated with the sultry Saint Nicholases. "This one's for me, right?"

Frantic ripping and howls of delight ensued, each of the gunmen adamantly pleased with themselves and each other for their impeccable gift-giving. Among the discarded paper and ribbons, each of them received a pair of socks, and Byers had gotten his yearly tie from Langly, as per tradition. Langly was currently reveling at the sight of his new Agnostic Front album. Frohike was restraining himself from cracking open his requested bottle of scotch. Perhaps 11am was just a bit too early for that.  


The carnage from the living room had been cleaned, and Byers was off preparing for the next onslaught of chaos, also known as Christmas dinner. Langly had just deposited the garbage bag full of wrapping paper outside by the bin, and he kicked off his shoes as he closed the door behind him. His bare feet padded down the hallway, his wiry, sweatpants-clad legs carrying him in long strides to the kitchen. "Yo, Frohike, you in there? Please tell me you've got some festive Christmas brunch Huevos Rancheros on the frypan."

In response, all he got was a loud thud, and a muffled groan.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen to be greeted by Frohike, wrestling the largest turkey he'd seen in his life.

"Whoah, when did that bird nest itself in here?"

"The least you could do right now is help me with this damn thing, Bean Pole," Frohike grunted from beneath the weight of the turkey. "We have a lot of work to do."  


Byers had made a list; he was efficient that way, but also incredulously OCD. On it were ideal times to begin each dish, cooking temperatures, and condensed recipes. He had assigned stations for each of them, with cooking and cleaning chores evenly distributed. Well, distributed according to strengths and weaknesses; Langly definitely had the least amount of cooking duties. Langly wondered when Byers had even prepared this, let alone how long it must have taken. Thank God for the Narc, he thought.

Things jumped into action without incident; Frohike began preparation on the turkey and stuffing while Byers washed and sliced the assorted vegetables. Langly was given the straightforward task of mashing the potatoes. They were his favourite, after all, so it seemed rather fitting, as well as completely harmless.

"Don't do anything more with the parsnips," Frohike blurted out as he noticed Byers deposit them into the sink. "I'm making those special."

"They're all yours," Langly chuckled.

Their cramped kitchen hummed with the buzz of productivity, their respective tasks carefully orchestrated and happily executed.  
  
-  
  
Langly stood at the counter, gripping the steel mixing bowl and furiously whipping the cream to a beat apparently only he heard. His head was bobbing up and down and his long, wavy blond hair swayed along with the motions.

"How many hours to the pound?" Frohike asked as he jammed the thermometer into the underside of the turkey. "This is a hefty bird, if it cooks for more than 5, we won't be eating till Boxing Day." He stepped back from the impaled bird and examined his watch, then shot a glance at Langly. "Hey, Joey Ramone, snap out of it. Any idea how long this thing's gonna cook?"

"Oh yeah, like I'd know the exact details of how to cook a turkey," Langley quipped. It was a bad habit of his that he spoke with his hands, especially when he was the one in charge of whipping the cream. The whisk in his left hand flung cream everywhere, and if it wasn't for the particles that sprayed onto his glasses, he probably wouldn't have noticed.

"Now look what you've done, smart-ass." Frohike sneered as he took the whisk from Langly and tossed it back into the bowl. "If you weren't slacking off that wouldn't have happened, now would it?"

"Yeah yeah, at least I'm bigger than the turkey. Good luck getting that thing into the oven, little man."

"At least I know how to cook, you buffoon."

"I can't leave you two alone with each other for a minute, can I?" Byers was standing in the doorway, arms cradled with multiple dishtowels and washcloths. He noticed the whipped cream on Langly's glasses and sighed with a smile. "It's a good thing I grabbed an extra," he said, and he took a small towel from the top of his neatly stacked pile and handed it to Langly. Langly removed his glasses and started wiping at them begrudgingly, muttering under his breath, "…something-or-other, damn Frohike distracting me, mutter mutter…" Byers tried his best to conceal his chuckle with a cough and brought the rest of the dishcloths to the sink.  


With the turkey in the oven and everything humming along smoothly, Langly had taken a detour to go through his CDs and find something resembling Christmas music to put on. Atmosphere, Frohike had insisted, needed to be arranged. Byers was washing assorted used utensils and cooking apparatuses, and Frohike stood by the stove, keeping a watchful eye on his beloved turkey.

Langly had numerous CDs laid out on the carpet, but he held two in front of himself, one in each hand, examining them both closely. "What do you think sets the mood better; 'Christmas with The Vandals: Oi to the World', or Stiff Little Fingers' 'White Christmas'?"

"Where on earth do you even get this stuff?" Frohike called out. He paused a moment. "…The Vandals."

"Vandals it is," Langly agreed. He clambered up from his cross-legged position on the floor to bring the chosen CD to the stereo.

"I hope you don't mind, but I called Mulder," Byers chirped from around the corner. "I figured there's enough here to spare."

"Agent Scully's tagging along, right?" Frohike grinned cheekily.

"What's one without the other?" Byers retorted, smiling, his eyes scrunching as his cheeks rosied. He remembered when they'd met Mulder; 1989 felt like yesterday with the amount of crazy scrummages he'd put them through over the years. But then, Scully happened. Mulder was changed, and the three of them had noticed a drastic improvement in his demeanour. Scully was good for him. The first time he'd brought her round to meet them, they could tell right off the bat that she was special. Frohike was definitely the most outright with his feelings, but they'd all agreed to at least some semblance of attraction to her at one point or another. But she wasn't theirs to covet; she didn't belong to anyone, nobody owned her, Byers had noted several times, but Mulder most certainly had her heart.

Byers noticed he had been working on scrubbing the same pot for maybe 10 minutes, his mind wandering to thoughts of Scully, his face emblazoned with a dopey grin.

"What time are we at?" Langly called out.

"'Bout an hour more for the bird, our agents should be here not too long after that," Frohike confirmed.

Byers cleared his throat and drained the sink.

 

Somehow, contrary to Langly's belief that it wouldn't be able to hold the weight, Byers had managed to fit everything onto their dining table. 5 chairs were placed around it, 3 of which were their permanent ones, with the other 2 being metal fold-out chairs. Langly made the offer that he would take one of them if he could sit at the head of the table and have first dibs on the mashed potatoes.

Everything was laid out in their finest, albeit only, dish ware; the monstrous 18-pound turkey taking centre stage on a platter, stuffed with croutons and all, surrounded by carrots and potatoes, heapings of brussel's sprouts sitting next to a dish of Frohike's trademarked parmesan parsnips, and a bowl of mashed potatoes that could probably have held a basketball or two. Topped off with something sizeably resembling a vat of gravy and a trifle in the fridge, the three of them were practically beaming with pride.

"We may be contented now," Langly noted, "but just wait until we have to clean all this up."

"I don't even wanna think about it," Frohike whimpered.

 

At 11:30, a loud thumping echoed against the front door.

"Open up, we're freezing out here!"

"Coming, coming, Cranky Claus," Frohike belted out as he scurried to the door. He unlocked the respective 7 locks and let the cold night air carry in their agent dinner guests, along with too many snowflakes for anyone's comfort.

Mulder swept at his coat to rid it of the frosty accoutrements, then reached his hand into his pocket to retrieve 3 small, poorly-wrapped presents. "I come bearing tidings of great joy," he mused, placing the parcels into Frohike's gloved hands.

"As do I," Scully added, and she held up a bottle of white wine. A blue ribbon had been tied tightly around the neck of the bottle and curled decoratively, a festive token that anyone except Frohike would have overlooked. He didn't see Scully as the drinking type, and even less so the festive one, but the thought of her tying the little ribbon around a thoughtful-gesture wine had his face plastered with a goofy grin.

"Flurriest night of the season, must have been hell getting out here tonight, especially at this hour."

"After last night, this was a breeze," Mulder said. "Pardon the pun."

"Do tell."

"Let's just say, I didn't expect haunted houses to be on the Christmas eve roster," Scully sighed. She began unbuttoning her coat one-handed and tapping her shoes on the ratty doormat beneath her boots.

"Mulder outdid himself with the romantic holiday activities this year, huh?" Langly called out from the kitchen. He rounded the corner and, noticing Scully struggling to hold both the bottle of wine and the conversation, offered to take her coat off the rest of the way.

"Yeah, I didn't even bring mistletoe or anything," Mulder chuckled.

"C'mon in, everything's set," Langly urged. "I'm starved."

 

Byers turned around as he heard them enter the kitchen, his arms full with stacked plates on their way to the table. "Good to see you," he beamed. "You're just on time, take a seat wherever you like."

"Except the head of the table. I'm there," Langly butted in.

Scully chose the seat furthest from the head, and Mulder squeezed himself in beside her.

"You purposely took a spot with a comfy chair, didn't you?" Mulder groaned. He had ended up with the remaining metal chair, and his long, gangly legs stretched out awkwardly under the table.

Scully didn't say a word, but her mouth curled into a sly smile as she arranged her napkin across her lap.

Mulder leaned back in his chair and examined the spread. "Boys, that is a truly gargantuan turkey. What's gonna happen when we don't clean it off by the end of tonight?"

"Byers is gonna be condemned to cold turkey sandwiches for the next year," Langly said as he slumped into his seat. He was already reaching for the mashed potatoes.

"I'm pretty sure I'd like to get in on that cold turkey action," Frohike protested. "I happen to like leftovers."

Langly shrugged. "To each his own. I'm partial to the po-ta-toes."

 

The five of them had tucked into their servings quite ravenously. Byers took a small helping of each dish and neatly arranged them on his plate. Langly, who had filled his plate with mainly mashed potatoes, had created a dam-like entrapment with them and filled it with gravy as if it were a bowl.  Frohike simply dumped spoonfuls of everything, except the sprouts, haphazardly in his general direction.

"Thanks again for the invitation. I didn't think I'd be getting a home-cooked meal this year," Mulder sputtered through a mouthful of turkey. It didn't help that he'd completely drenched it in gravy; he was practically drinking the bird.

"Not at all, and sorry again for the short notice," Byers said. He slid a brussel's sprout onto his fork very delicately, wiping the gravy from his knife across it. He was an impeccably neat individual, in every aspect of mannerism and appearance. "I'm just glad you could make it."

Langly chimed in, mouth full of mashed potatoes. "Yeah, how'd he convince you guys to come over here anyways? I know Mulder wouldn't have anything planned, but Scully, you must've had your own family dinner."

"Well, last I remember, most normal families are not eating their Christmas suppers at a quarter to midnight," Scully quipped.

"Yeah, but we're not a normal family," Langly grinned.

"You're not normal anything."

"You're one to talk, Mulder."

"Mulder, I think you spat turkey on my sleeve."

"Oh, shoot, sorry Scully. Did you want some gravy?"

"I might take some of yours, actually. You've got enough there to drown someone."

Mulder chuckled, his toothy grin beaming rays of contentment. Her utensils rested idly between her fingers as she gazed at him, completely unaware of the Gunmen's presence. The three of them sat, exchanging looks between each other as they spectated the impossible connection between their agent comrades.

 

Light, fluffy snow fell lackadaisically outside, and a sweeping breeze blew the flakes every which way. It was chilly and brisk out in the dark night of Boxing Day eve, but the other side of the door held all the warmth and comfort of Christmas that any of them could ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm just gonna let it be known that i love cheesy, holiday-centered scenarios. who says mulder and scully can't take some time for a christmas dinner with their favourite conspiracy-theory busting trio?  
> and yes, langly's cds and frohike's wrapping paper do actually exist. i used the stripper santa paper last year. it's glorious.


End file.
